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Cobbler’s Children
By Stephanie Kemp
Cobbler’s Children
By Stephanie Kemp
I am relearning how to pay attention. I am working hard on it, even though it sounds easy. Especially to people who aren’t paying attention. They are everywhere. (I see them now that I am paying attention.)
It is not.
Easy.
What we eat, how we move, what we think, who and what we let in.
People. People. People.
All the people who want something. Need something. Dump something.
This increasingly unfamiliar world has me realizing that I need to show up properly and in full force.
It is way beyond all hands on deck.
I need to be present.
I need to contribute.
I need to protect more than just the routines of my day to day, or
(Even) Just my children.
I need to curate what’s left.
There is no more time or space for false shine.
(If you met me, I might not look that shiny, but I would figure out how to make you see my shine, even if I am not seeing it. This is the blessing turned curse of the false shiners.)
I have literally forgotten how to breathe. And everyone knows what happens (or doesn’t) when we forget to breathe.
Don’t they?
Do I?
Luckily (and if we are lucky), we don’t have to think about breath. It just happens.
We take a breath approximately 20,000 times a day and rarely stop to think about that.
This is ironic because when we don’t pay attention to our breathing, we mostly Brain Breathe.
There is a little study that I conduct when I work with kids.
(I miss working with kids. Maybe this is part of my problem…)
It goes like this:
“Ready?” I ask, looking out over a rug or park full of criss cross apple sauce adorableness.
“Everyone take a big breath.”
Eager to please and have fun, the kids I work with are always game. They look at me with trusting eyes and take the most sincere, heartfelt, deep breath they can muster. I hear gasps and giggles and see eyes get wide as tiny shoulders - usually every single set of them - pull up to little ears before making their way down again on an even louder exhale.
Then, more giggles.
I do it with them, shoulders and all.
“That was great!” I say, sincerely.
“Doesn’t it feel good to take a deep breath?”
Nods and murmurs, smiles, ensue.
“That’s what I call a Brain Breath. See how our shoulders go up like that? That means the brain is controlling the breath - which is SO IMPORTANT because the brain does so much heavy lifting for us. All day, every day, our brains work so hard! Let’s do another one.”
Their second brain breath is less enthusiastic and more distracted because something in them (the brain!) is hinting that I might be about to pull a grown up fast one on them.
They have become attached to - and feel protective of - what they think they have already learned. (Note to self.)
I know that I have very little time to get them back. I can’t waste it:
“But what about the rest of our bodies? We need to get our breath to all of the other parts that also work hard, right?”
Dubious.
Curious.
Dubious and curious with a dash of When is Snack.
“Now we are going to do a Belly Breath.”
(The word belly gets a laugh - they’re still in.)
“It’s easy. Put your hand on your belly. Then take a deep breath in through your nose like you’re smelling some flowers……..hold it for 3 seconds. Then let the air out of your mouth like you’re blowing out birthday candles. There are a lot of candles on the cake, so make sure you use all that air. You don’t want to waste your wish!”
The giggles are back. I don’t have to tell them to do it again. They want to do it. (This part of) my work is done. I just have to make sure one more piece of intel gets in there:
“The reason we keep our hands on our bellies is to make sure that we’re not cheating!”
(I find that kids - almost universally - don’t want to be cheaters.)
“You should feel - and see - your hand push out as you smell the flowers and then feel - and see! - it go back in again when you blow out the candles.”
“Did it work?”
For the next 5 minutes I watch them literally show each other how to breathe properly, swapping notes and techniques, deal sealing it even more.
I have done this with kids for over 20 years and when I see them now (my favorite kind of heartbreaking run-ins), they tell me that this is still how they remember to breathe.
I need to remember it, too.
Especially if I am (and I am) going to do anything else.
It is not.
Easy.
What we eat, how we move, what we think, who and what we let in.
People. People. People.
All the people who want something. Need something. Dump something.
This increasingly unfamiliar world has me realizing that I need to show up properly and in full force.
It is way beyond all hands on deck.
I need to be present.
I need to contribute.
I need to protect more than just the routines of my day to day, or
(Even) Just my children.
I need to curate what’s left.
There is no more time or space for false shine.
(If you met me, I might not look that shiny, but I would figure out how to make you see my shine, even if I am not seeing it. This is the blessing turned curse of the false shiners.)
I have literally forgotten how to breathe. And everyone knows what happens (or doesn’t) when we forget to breathe.
Don’t they?
Do I?
Luckily (and if we are lucky), we don’t have to think about breath. It just happens.
We take a breath approximately 20,000 times a day and rarely stop to think about that.
This is ironic because when we don’t pay attention to our breathing, we mostly Brain Breathe.
There is a little study that I conduct when I work with kids.
(I miss working with kids. Maybe this is part of my problem…)
It goes like this:
“Ready?” I ask, looking out over a rug or park full of criss cross apple sauce adorableness.
“Everyone take a big breath.”
Eager to please and have fun, the kids I work with are always game. They look at me with trusting eyes and take the most sincere, heartfelt, deep breath they can muster. I hear gasps and giggles and see eyes get wide as tiny shoulders - usually every single set of them - pull up to little ears before making their way down again on an even louder exhale.
Then, more giggles.
I do it with them, shoulders and all.
“That was great!” I say, sincerely.
“Doesn’t it feel good to take a deep breath?”
Nods and murmurs, smiles, ensue.
“That’s what I call a Brain Breath. See how our shoulders go up like that? That means the brain is controlling the breath - which is SO IMPORTANT because the brain does so much heavy lifting for us. All day, every day, our brains work so hard! Let’s do another one.”
Their second brain breath is less enthusiastic and more distracted because something in them (the brain!) is hinting that I might be about to pull a grown up fast one on them.
They have become attached to - and feel protective of - what they think they have already learned. (Note to self.)
I know that I have very little time to get them back. I can’t waste it:
“But what about the rest of our bodies? We need to get our breath to all of the other parts that also work hard, right?”
Dubious.
Curious.
Dubious and curious with a dash of When is Snack.
“Now we are going to do a Belly Breath.”
(The word belly gets a laugh - they’re still in.)
“It’s easy. Put your hand on your belly. Then take a deep breath in through your nose like you’re smelling some flowers……..hold it for 3 seconds. Then let the air out of your mouth like you’re blowing out birthday candles. There are a lot of candles on the cake, so make sure you use all that air. You don’t want to waste your wish!”
The giggles are back. I don’t have to tell them to do it again. They want to do it. (This part of) my work is done. I just have to make sure one more piece of intel gets in there:
“The reason we keep our hands on our bellies is to make sure that we’re not cheating!”
(I find that kids - almost universally - don’t want to be cheaters.)
“You should feel - and see - your hand push out as you smell the flowers and then feel - and see! - it go back in again when you blow out the candles.”
“Did it work?”
For the next 5 minutes I watch them literally show each other how to breathe properly, swapping notes and techniques, deal sealing it even more.
I have done this with kids for over 20 years and when I see them now (my favorite kind of heartbreaking run-ins), they tell me that this is still how they remember to breathe.
I need to remember it, too.
Especially if I am (and I am) going to do anything else.